


Migraine

by imanadultiguess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jim has a migraine, M/M, One Shot, Sick Fic, soft and subtle and fluffy, zero plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: Jim has a migraine.  Seb takes care of him.





	Migraine

**Author's Note:**

> This is, like, Schrodinger's Fic, it could belong to the Makeshift Family series, or it could not. Follow your heart.

Jim has a migraine.

He doesn't realize it yet, but he does. He's blinking a lot, which is how it almost always starts. Soon, he'll start to see spots. 

It has to get bad before Jim takes notice. Well, for his brain to notice. His body knows, of course, that's why he's blinking more, squinting. His slouch has become more pronounced, too. I'll need to get him out of this meeting sooner rather than later. 

I pretend to check something on my phone, then close the gap between his chair at the head of the table and the doorway where I stand guard. (Parisian mobsters are, surprisingly, remarkable marksman, so it's important that I'm present and visible to protect my boss against the twelve leaders he's meeting with.) I lean over to whisper in his ear. 

"Time to go, boss." 

He waves me away, irritated. 

I turn my head so that the others won't see my lips move. "You've got a migraine, Jim." 

He pauses like he's taking stock of his body. It's like a computer checking to see if there's a recognizable wifi network in range. _Ah, yes, there it is, and now we're connected._

I can see the minute change in his posture as he registers the alarm. His eyes look weaker, and I'm concerned that the brutes surrounding him will take notice. 

Jim gets to his feet and claps his hands together loudly. "Well, boys, it's been real and it's been fun, but it's not been real fun. I don't think we're going to reach an agreement, and you've seen my face, so . . ." He twirls around to face me, remarkably perky for a man who just realized he had a splitting headache. "Colonel, if you would please. . ." 

I wait until Jim's out the door before I fire. Gunshots, even accompanied by the silencer, tend to make migraines worse. 

~~

The lights from the streetlamps are dampened by the heavy London fog, and I'm grateful. In the backseat of the car, Jim's pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched tight to keep out the incessant lights of the city. He hasn't said anything the whole time, which is very unusual for Jim, who usually talks nonstop after a mass murder or a business meeting. 

"Is it bad?" I ask as softly as possible. 

"Not yet." 

Which is a lie, because if it wasn't bad, he would've answered with sarcasm and general arseholery. Instead, he sounds sincere and soft, which, from Moriarty, indicates deception. Something in my chest hurts. I reach behind me to touch his knee. 

Almost instantly he grabs my hand, his grip tight, as though he can transfer the pain to me through this touch. He doesn't let go. 

I'm not sure if he's holding my hand because it's comforting or if he's squeezing my hand because he wants someone else to suffer with him. Either way, the gesture conjures up those unsettling protective, _maternal_ sort of feelings where I just want to make everything immediately better. My hand remains in his grasp until we arrive at his little house outside the city. 

~~

I leave all the lights off while I guide him to the bathtub, settling him down on the side so I can remove his shoes and socks. He whines just once and it's very quiet. The stray strand of light that seeps in through the blinds highlights the steam rising off the hot peppermint oil-infused water in the tub. The mirror's already fogged up. The entire room and the hallway leading to it smells of peppermint oil and humidity. 

Jim winces when he tries to put his bare feet in the water. 

"Let it cool, first," I tell him. 

He groans. 

While we wait, I undo his tie, then his dress shirt, then his trousers. When he's down to his pants and undershirt, I crouch down so that our faces are level. "Boss?" I ask, gentle as possible, terrified that any sound or movement will magnify his pain. Jim bitches that I treat him like a child when he's ill; that's completely untrue. I hate children, and I certainly wouldn't be going through all this for one. 

"Hm?" 

"Sit tight." 

His nod is almost imperceptible. 

~~

_Decaf green tea brewed with ginger root._

I stare at the kettle, waiting for it to whistle. Only the dim stove light is on. There's a wire or something in there that's gone wrong, because both bulbs should be working, not just the one. I'll fix it, one day. 

I say that every time I find myself in this situation. The only time I ever use the light over the stove is when Jim has a migraine. It's been six years now; it probably will never happen. 

But I'll fix it, one day. 

I hear Jim's pained hiss from the loo. 

"Let it cool," I tell him again, my voice only marginally louder. 

He groans again to show his irritation. I can't help but smile. 

When his tea is ready, I grab a pack of frozen peas from the freezer. We don't actually eat frozen peas, so I'm not sure who bought them, but it's the same pack we've been using for the last six years. Armed with tea and peas, I feel my way back to the loo. 

My eyes adjust, and I can make out the silhouette of Jim, doubled over in pain, his feet submerged in the steaming water. 

I very lightly squeeze his neck, just to let him know that I'm present, that I've got his tea when he's ready for it. I wet a clean cloth and fold it so it can fit neatly beneath the hairline on the back of his neck. He braces for the frozen peas to rest on top of it, then moans when cold meets wet. 

The peppermint is so thick in the air now that I can't keep my eyes open. I take a seat beside him, facing the opposite direction. I place my hand on his knee, and he grips it again. 

We sit in silence. 

~~

"Better?" I ask when his position changes ever so slightly to lean against me. He's still bent enough that he doesn't lose the peas (which I've turned a few times so they don't get too warm), and his feet are still submerged, but he's straightened up enough that his cheek is pressed against my bicep. 

"Bit," he manages. 

I grab his tea from the sink and offer it to him. It's a drinkable temperature now, but I blow on it nonetheless before handing it to him. 

It's a comfortable pattern, this. I find it's actually trained me to get sleepy, because that's part of the pattern--hot footbath with peppermint oil, tea with ginger root, and then bed, no screentime, no sound. 

I try not to yawn while he sips at his tea. 

"Think we caught it in time," he says after a long stretch of silence. 

He's referring to the fact that the nausea didn't hit this time. Sometimes, if I'm not paying attention or if we can't get back to the house quick enough, he gets incredibly sick to his tum and vomits. And if there is one thing that Jim Moriarty hates, it's vomiting. _"I'd rather bleed to death than puke. Bleeding,"_ he always says, _"is sexy. Puking is disgusting."_

His grip on my hand loosens, but he doesn't let go. 

Another long stretch of silence. 

~~

The routine doesn't get rid of the migraine, unfortunately, but it takes the edge off and it keeps it from getting worse. 

We lay in the quiet dark, covered only by a sheet. Migraines mean the comforter is banished to the floor. His head rests on my chest, his fist over my heart. I stroke the length of his back with my fingertips in perfect rhythm, like it's some sort of magic that will heal him. It doesn't, but I feel less helpless. 

"I think it was the fluorescent light," he murmurs, just seconds away from a proper doze. 

"Mhm," I agree. It couldn't possibly have been the not eating or drinking for two days prior to an all-nighter of binge-drinking red wine while watching _Grey's Anatomy_. 

"Sebby?" 

"Hm?" 

"My feet tingle." 

I try not to chuckle, lest I undo my last hour of work in taming his headache. I press a kiss to his forehead. I reach to the nightstand to retrieve the little bottle of peppermint oil and dab a bit onto my thumb, then rub it under his nose. I don't know why it helps, but it does. He snuggles a little closer after I've recapped the bottle and set it back on the nightstand. 

The new burst of minty scent stings my eyes. The smell used to make me nauseous. Now it just makes me sleepy. I let myself yawn. 

"Poor Seb." Jim yawns too. 

"Poor Jim." 

"My feet tingle." 

I bite my lip so I don't laugh. A sleepy Jim is a repetitive Jim. 

I resume stroking his back. "Better?" I ask again. 

He nods. His fist has come undone, so now its his palm resting over my heart. I kiss him again. His breathing slows and deepens. "Poor Jim." 

He'll bitch in the morning. He'll bitch that I patronized him, that I treated him like a child, that I killed twelve very important mobsters, that the house reeks of peppermint, that I forgot to drain the water out of the tub, et cetera, until I shove him outside in his pants and lock all the doors or something equally as dramatic. 

But for now, he sleeps off the migraine in the dark and the quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically how I treat my boyfriend's migraines.


End file.
